Love, and Other Indoor Sports
by Beau Menteur
Summary: Mikasa is struggling after losing her job, but an interview convinces her that, perhaps, her luck may be changing. She's wrong of course—but not all bad things last forever. Modern AU. Please see my profile for content/trigger warnings.
1. Chapter 1

A red stoplight was all that stood between Mikasa being on-time for her job interview.

It was five-fifty in the evening—she had wanted to be there at five-fourty-five, fifteen minutes earlier than the scheduled appointment, to make a good first impression. But now, as she sat sulking and gripping the steering wheel with frustration, she realized she still had quite a bit of driving to do. She would be lucky if she made it fifteen minutes _late. _

She had put superfluous effort into appearing professional and capable. Her black hair was pulled back into a neat ponytail, her pantsuit had been ironed and perfectly pleated, her lucky scarlet scarf even washed and groomed of loose threads. A binder sat in the passenger seat to her right; it contained a polished new résumé that she was sure would leave the interviewer awestricken. She had prepared answers to any question that could possibly have been asked of her. Everything, she thought, had been perfectly executed.

But, of course, traffic had been dreadful, and when she had finally surpassed it she had hit nearly every red light the world could've dished out. This one, however, seemed particularly long. She had been sitting at the intersection for what seemed like ten minutes now, growing increasingly more impatient as the seconds ticked by.

Something in the universe had not been aligned in Mikasa's favor lately. This was becoming painfully obvious to her; in the past three weeks alone, she seemed to face one misfortune after another.

It had started when she lost her previous job as result of a dispute with a fellow employee. Of course, meeting that witch of a woman was actually the _first _of her calamities, but it had never occurred to her that it would result in anything as perilous as unemployment. Her boss had told her kindly that it would be a good idea if she was to resign—she agreed, albeit begrudgingly. At least she would no longer be working alongside the unbearable Annie Leonhardt.

Only three days after the incident, while she had been pointedly scanning the classifieds of her local newspaper, Eren, her step-brother had walked into the room. They shared an apartment, and she had yet to tell him she couldn't pay the month's rent—before she had a chance to, he had an announcement of his own. He declared that he had dropped out of college and she had shouted at him and questioned why. He told her he had decided to pursue his new passion—boxing. However, the tuition, which she had paid for on her own, would not be reimbursed.

After that, she thought the worst of her luck was over. She was proven wrong when, one morning, she had woken up and walked into the bathroom to find the floor completely flooded. Someone—Eren wouldn't admit it was him—had done _something _and the water pipes had been completely damaged. The floor was ruined, and the shower wasn't working properly. At the time, she couldn't afford to fix either problem. She and Eren took to bathing at a friend's house. Armin was more than accommodating, but she felt like a burden and a bother.

When she had received a phone call from a place she had submitted an application to, asking if she could come in for a job interview, she was ecstatic. The sooner she was able to start working, the better. She had gratefully accepted, and the man on the other end of the phone had told her to _be punctual, be prepared. _

Now, she was stuck at this damned stoplight. She would look neither punctual nor prepared and she _wouldn't _get the job—and for what? This intersection was completely barren. No cars were coming from any direction, and as far as she could tell, there were no police officers in the area.

Mikasa whipped her head around, surveying the area once more. She most certainly did not condone criminal activity, and she was a stickler for following driving laws. However, if she were to make it to the interview on time and actually land the job, at the very least she could pay for whatever fine could come from running the stoplight.

She tapped her chin lightly. Another five seconds passed—the light still didn't change. She sighed heavily and prepared to press on the gas pedal. She had no other option.

Her body jerked forward involuntarily before the car could move. She gasped, alarmed; after a few moments, she realized someone had rear-ended the vehicle.

She glanced at her rearview mirror; the moron who had hit her had stepped out of his car and was hurriedly inspecting the damage on his luxury vehicle. Her eyes moved back to the stoplight; to her dismay, while she had been distracted, it had turned green. For a moment, she considered flooring it anyway, but the accident hadn't been her fault and she couldn't pay for damages to her own automobile.

Mikasa slammed her fist on the dashboard and swore—"Fuck this shit, god damn it,"—and moved to unbuckle her own seatbelt after turning off the ignition. She had absolutely no time for this. She threw the door open and stomped out, slamming it behind her. She hadn't even approached the man when she began ranting. "What the hell? Don't you watch where you're driving?"

He looked up at her when she was a few feet away and standing still. His expression took her aback—or rather, his lack of expression. He looked bored, perhaps slightly aggravated, but otherwise unreadable. He turned back to examining the cars—she noticed that his headlight was shattered and her fender had a small dent.

She studied him. His hair was slightly ruffled and he wore a wrinkled white t-shirt and a pair of worn-out track pants, despite the fact that his car looked very new and _very _expensive. He looked exhausted and she could tell that he was not very tall; she humored herself for a moment, wondering if he hit her because he couldn't see over his own dashboard.

She watched as he ran his hand through his hair exasperatedly, before asking, "Are you going to answer me," she hesitated as he turned his head to face her once more, "or can you not hear me from down there?"

His eyes narrowed and he glared at her. She was unmoved.

"Look," he said, and she was surprised that such a deep voice came from such a short man, "I really don't have the time for this. I'm in a hurry."

Mikasa was goaded. _He _was in a hurry? What an ass. She cleared her throat and placed her hands on her hips. "Well, so am I," she stressed each syllable, "and maybe I could be where I need to by now if you hadn't rammed into me. This was your fault." She tried to ignore him when he rolled his eyes at her, slipping his hands into his track pants. "Yeah, I get that. We're _both _in a hurry, so can we just get this over with and be on our way?"

"Get this over with?" Her jaw clenched and her eyes moved once more to the dent on her car. "Unfortunately, I can't afford to pay for that, so no, we can't just get it over with and be on our way." This guy was an idiot. "Alright," he said, "then can we exchange information and then settle this tomorrow or something?"

She wanted to tell him no, and that such a thing was unethical and she had no way of knowing if he was going to just skip out on her, but her mind pressed on that by now, it was probably five-fifty-five and she needed desperately to get to her interview. She pondered for a moment—what if this guy was a creep? Should she call the police and report the accident?—but eventually sighed, turned to her car and opened the door.

She reached in, opened her glove compartment and muddled around for a few seconds. When she retracted, she was holding a ballpoint pen and an old notepad. "Don't call until after noon, tomorrow," she muttered as she uncapped the pen and tested it on the paper. It left grainy, but legible, blue squiggles on the edge of the paper.

He nodded. "Sure." She began to scrawl actual letters—her name, and then her phone number. After a few moments, she tore the paper from the others and handed it, the notepad, and the pen to the man. He took it and began to write his own name and phone number while she waited. As he scribbled, she mumbled, "And don't write some phony number, either." Penning, he nodded again.

When he was finished, he shoved the paper with her information into his pocket and handed her items back to her. She grabbed them and tossed them through the open door of her car before getting in herself. She turned the car on, and outside he said, "I'll talk to you then."

She rolled her eyes while buckling her seatbelt. "Yeah," she called, not at all kindly, "try not to rear-end anyone else in your hurry." She closed her door.

Grabbing the notepad and pen from the passenger seat, she waited until he got into his own car and turned it on, watching him from the side mirror. She sat there, and he pulled around her and began to drive away—as he drove away, she quickly scribbled onto the paper _062-NVH._

When she was done, she capped the pen and stepped on the gas, satisfied that if the phone number or name he had given her was fake, at least she had his license plate.

* * *

Mikasa wouldn't admit that to make it to the interview on time, she had driven twenty miles over the speed limit. She had made it to the building at five-fifty-nine. Waves of relief washed over her so violently, she thought she could have drowned then and there.

As she exited her car and began to speed-walk towards the front door, her eyes scanned over the large letters on the face of the building. _ReCON, _it read, _The 24-Hour Fitness Surveyor. _

She swept through the automatic front doors, and the familiar scent of sweat mixed with excessive deodorant instantly hit her. She hadn't been in a gym in weeks, and the stench was strangely inviting; it made her feel comfortable. The sound of weights-hitting-weights and fraught grunting filled her ears. She approached the front desk.

A middle-aged man greeted her with a smile, a stack of papers in his hand and a phone nestled between his shoulder and ear. He held his index finger up to Mikasa as he scribbled something down, asking her to wait one moment, before dropping the pen and grabbing the phone with his right hand. He spoke into the phone, "Yes, alright, I'll see you then, thank you," he placed the papers to the side, "Yes, have a nice day, thank you. Goodbye."

He hung up the phone. "I'm sorry about that!" he said politely to Mikasa, and she smiled in response. He rolled his shoulders, stretching. "Is there anything I can help you with ma'am?" She nodded.

"Yes, I have an interview with the owner for," her eyes flicked upwards at a clock on the wall, "uh, right now actually." The man nodded and began to ruffle through another stack of papers. He reached into a container on the desk and pulled out a yellow highlighter. He drummed it lightly against the desk for a few seconds, before asking, "Last name?"

"Ackerman. A, C, K—"

He cut her off with a pleasant, "Ah! I see it. Okay," he highlighted her name and appointment, before replacing the marker, "if you head through those doors you'll be in the owner's office." He gestured to a pair of doors in the back of the gym labelled _Staff Only. _She smiled at him. "Alright, thank you…" she took a second to read his nametag before continuing, "…Auruo, I appreciate it."

She turned to make her way through the gym, before she heard, "Oh, and Miss Ackerman?" Her head moved to face Auruo once more. He was smirking sheepishly. "The owner might seem a little cold, but don't be nervous. He's a good guy."

Mikasa said final thanks before beginning to hastily stride through the building. Compared to most gyms she had been to, it was fairly large and accommodating. There were new-looking treadmills lines against one wall, ellipticals nearby, cross-training devices across the room, and a state-of-the-art collection of weights and weight systems in the middle. Everything was pristine and in good shape, and customers looked as though they were enjoying themselves.

Her previous workplace had not been nearly as sleek and nice. Machines were worn down and malfunctioning, the environment was dingy, and no one got along—she was proof of that. This place, however, impressed her.

_Staff Only. _The words were larger now that she was up close, and she found herself hesitant to push them open. The answers she had practiced to possible interview questions swarmed in her head, and she subconsciously reached her hand up to straighten out her red scarf. She licked her lips and took a deep breath before pushing on of the two doors open.

The open door revealed a small office, clean and well-lit, empty of all but a desk, a few chairs, and three potted plants. A man sat at the desk, his face hidden and the top of his dark head bobbing up and down as he leaned over some paperwork in front of him. She waited for a moment, tentative to interrupt, watching him. After delaying a few seconds more, she finally knocked lightly against the metal door, alerting him to her presence. "Excuse me," she said, "I have an appointment for a job interview."

"You're late," the man remarked in a somewhat muffled groan as he thumbed through a few more papers. She shuffled her feet awkwardly. "Yes," she attested, "I know, I'm very sorry about that." The man nodded in recognition and folded a piece of paper in half before muttering, "Well, that's not a very good first impression of you, is it?"

She sighed inwardly. She prepared to defend herself, to apologize and argue her reason for tardiness. Before she could however, the man lifted his head and his eyes met hers. He seemed to open his mouth to speak, but suddenly closed it when he saw her face.

Something in the universe had not been aligned in Mikasa's favor lately. This was becoming painfully obvious to her; in the past three weeks alone, she seemed to face one misfortune after another.

Her mind went completely blank. She instantly forgot all of the savvy answers she had prepared, how professional she wanted to appear—instead, she could only recall every profane and rude thing she had said to the man who rear-ended her car minutes before. Her face visibly paled as she realized the very same man who she had sworn at and degraded was sitting in the desk before her.

She nearly dropped the binder she held. Under his breath, the man whispered, "Shit."

For what seemed to Mikasa like twenty minutes, they remained still, unspeaking. She didn't know whether to apologize for having been so unkind to her interviewer, or to perhaps turn around and run straight out of the building, or even brush the situation off as though nothing had transpired between the two.

Before she could take action, he spoke. He was obviously uncomfortable, but with a sweeping motion of his arm, he gestured to a chair in front of his desk. "Well," he said flatly, "take a seat then, Miss..." He paused. They both realized that on the street, they hadn't exchanged names out loud.

She swallowed—a lump had seemed to form in her throat. "Ackerman," she felt anxious, "Mikasa Ackerman. Thank you," she mumbled and pulled out the chair to sit.

The universe, Mikasa decided, was just not simply aligned in her favor; it was out to get her.

The man gawkily clasped his hands on the surface of the desk and stared at her intently. She felt suddenly miniscule under his authoritative glare. She had messed up, she was really fucked over now, she didn't know how to save her own ass.

"So," he said rashly, "what can you offer to us at _ReCON?_"

* * *

**A/N: **So I'm back with something new! An AU! A modern AU! Heck yeah!

This is the first chapter and it's short, but the following chapters will hopefully be up to twice this length. I was just really excited to put this first one out there! It's different than what I'm used to writing but I enjoy the plan I have for this story so far.

Fun fact, the idea for this came to me after I got my learners permit a few days ago and a job a few weeks ago.

The title of this fic is inspired by a line from Judy Blume's _Starring Sally J. Freedman As Herself. _I read it as a child and that line always stuck with me for some reason.

I'll update soon! Thank you for reading! And (shameless self promotion) if you enjoy Levi and Mikasa feel free to check out my other fic, Primitive ;D

As always, if you feel as though something in this story may become triggering and uncomfortable for you, content and trigger warnings for this fic are listed on my profile.

Thank you for checkin' this out! A review would warm my heart!

Have a good day and stay hip!


	2. Chapter 2

To say that Mikasa Ackerman was physically capable would be an understatement.

From roughly the age of nine, upon meeting her adoptive family, she discovered she excelled in the area of athletics; whether she was getting into scuffles with neighborhood bullies or playing on recreational soccer and basketball teams, she always dominated the situation. Having another child, Eren, in the family to scrap and practice with had undeniably brought her talents to the surface.

Come middle school, her classmates were constantly impressed with her performance in gym class and at recess, though she was never one to show off to others. No one dared to deny her skills simply because of her gender; boys and girls alike marveled in her aptitude. She could kick, hit, throw farther than anyone in her grade and those above; teachers would always call on her to help rearrange a classroom, as she was the only student strong enough to move a desk.

High school provided her with the opportunity to really progress and validate her athleticism—following the death of she and Eren's parents, she channeled her sadness, anger, and stress into sports. She joined every team offered—basketball, volleyball, soccer, track, hockey, and even wrestling and football, which, due to her integration became co-ed sports at her school. She excelled at each, and she enjoyed the thrill and challenge of the games. She left high school with a legacy of beaten records and an array of trophies.

She was neither extremely social nor studious, but her evident litheness made up for what else she was lacking in. She was offered several scholarships to prestigious colleges, but followed through with none; Eren had decided to go to school to become a lawyer, and as their parents were no longer around to support them, she took it upon herself to help him pay his way. With her high school credentials, she managed to get a well-paying job at a nice gym.

Now, at nineteen, she found herself at what would have been the peak of her athletic career—had she not lost said well-paying job. But, despite her unemployment, she was still active and skilled in sports—she was confident that any other workplace would be pleased to hire her.

The man she sat opposite of now, however, did not appear pleased to have her in his office.

"So," he said rashly, "what can you offer to us at _ReCON?_"

Mikasa blinked. What did she have to offer? Suddenly, she didn't know. Her memory, of school-day successes and physical triumphs, had flown her, abandoned an already sinking ship. Her grip tightened around the black binder in her lap; she opened it and pulled out a sheet of paper.

She slipped it onto the desk. "I have a résumé," she explained nervously. He glanced down at the paper, neatly typed in black ink, momentarily before returning his harsh gaze to her. He blinked twice, his expression growing slightly amused. "I didn't ask you if you had a résumé."

"Right." She cursed herself inwardly, realizing just how unprofessional she probably appeared, and tried as casually as possible to read what she had typed on the paper. She hoped it was not painfully obvious to the man before her that she planned on using the summary as a cheat-sheet. "Well," she began, leaning slightly over the desk as she struggled to decipher the words in the distance, "I am a very capable and experienced fitness trainer."

She looked up at him and he nodded; she slowly continued, "I was previously employed as a trainer at _Titan Athletics,_" he opened and reached into a desk drawer as he listened, removing a sharpie, "where I worked with different age groups, offered and improved my skills, and assisted others in achieving their own fitness goals."

He uncapped the sharpie and reached for a paper from one of the stacks scattered on his desk. He pulled it in front of him and began to write, glancing down from her while he did so. The prospect of what he many have been writing about her made her heart race. Was it good? Bad?

"So, you quit your previous job?"

She knew this question was coming. Mikasa chewed on her lip for a very short moment and pressed her palms into her knees. "Well, not exactly,"—she was never this nervous, why was she struggling to keep her composure?—"I was urged to resign after an, uh, incident with a fellow employee."

"An incident?'

"Just a disagreement, really—an argument. She and I just didn't get along."

He stopped writing to look at her for a moment, and she saw just a flicker of uncharacteristic hilarity in his eyes, "Do you often find yourself in disagreement with others, then?"

She felt the hues of her cheeks redden before he added, "With fellow employees, that is."

Mikasa hesitated before answering. "No," she started, and then continued more confidently, "I see myself as a generally calm and level-headed person," he looked down and started writing again, "I take my work very seriously and I am very dedicated, and unfortunately my colleague did not share those same values, which is where we didn't see eye-to-eye."

From what Mikasa could see of his paper, he was making a list. She subconsciously tugged on the strings of her red scarf. He muttered, "I see."

When he looked back up, he appeared either bored or discontent—she couldn't quite put her finger on which. She felt slightly on edge. They sat for there for a few seconds in silence as he seemed to study her; she wondered if she looked as tense as she felt. Eventually, he spoke, "Miss Ackerman, you still haven't answered my original question." He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk and resting his chin on clasped hands. "What can you offer to us at _ReCON?_"

Right. She had forgotten, she had gone off on a tangent, she was mildly embarrassed. She swallowed, her throat dry, and glimpsed down at her résumé once more. "What I have to offer at _ReCON _is," her eyes reconnected with his, "determination, purpose, and experience. I'm not bad at what I do and I think you would benefit from having me on this team."

He sighed—or was it a yawn?—and his marker was at work again, adding to the list she couldn't read from where she sat. "Do you always speak as if you're reading from a script, Ackerman?"

Her brow furrowed as she sat, suddenly puzzled. "I'm sorry?" she questioned, not exactly sure what he meant, but he waved his hand. "Never mind," he said, rolling steel-grey eyes, "let's move on. I'm going to give you a scenario, and you need to tell me what you would do, as an employee of _ReCON, _when faced with a specific situation. Do you understand?"

She nodded, and he returned the gesture. "Good," he said unenthusiastically, "let's begin. You walk into work one morning, and you see someone you don't necessarily get along with. You didn't expect to see them there. What do you do?"

Mikasa paused for a moment to ponder the scenario, finding it oddly familiar. "I wouldn't allow my personal feelings interfere with my work," she indicated as he started writing again, the strokes of marking squealing against the paper, "I would focus solely on the professionalism of my work and if they approached me, I would try to make the situation as comfortable an unproblematic as possible."

She was assertive in her answer, and he raised his head. "Alright. Next scenario—you're going about your own business when a customer accidentally bumps into you from behind, possibly injuring you. You're very angry, but remember, it is a customer and you are in the workplace. What do you do?"

Her cheeks reddened once more—she knew exactly which 'scenario' he was referring to, and she knew he was doing it to fluster her and push her buttons.

It took her a few more seconds to come up with an answer, and she struggled to sound as poised as she had prior. "If that were to happen, I would take some time to calmly assess the situation, check on the other person, and check on others around us," he raised an eyebrow at this but she continued, "and then, if it had been a preventable situation rather than an accident—say, the person had been roughhousing or using the equipment improperly, I would refer them to a manager."

More writing, and she inwardly sighed, relieved that her answer seemed, at least to her, perfectly acceptable.

He capped the sharpie and placed it on the desk, and they sat in stillness for a few minutes as he scanned over what was scribbled on the paper. The amount of time seemed eternities longer to Mikasa—she felt her palms grow damp, her shoulders rigid. She was never this nervous; she really needed this job to work out.

Eventually, to her exasperation, he cleared his throat and spoke. "Well, Miss Ackerman," he started, and she immediately frowned at the tone of voice he was using, "although I believe you are very capable of handling a job at _ReCON, _you just seem, unfortunately, too brash and irate compared to who we already have on-staff and—"

"Okay, look." The man and Mikasa herself looked equally as surprised when she cut him off, and she waited for a short second before deciding to continue, "I mean, if I may sir," she grabbed at her scarf, "I apologize for being so hostile earlier. Although it's not much of an excuse, if I had known who you are I would have treated you differently. I've been having a rough time, and I need you to understand that I need this job more than anything."

She looked at him expectantly, but he said nothing, so she kept on. "I assure you I am typically very calm, and I would be very grateful for the opportunity to prove that to you," she let go of the scarf and clasped her hands gently on the table, almost as if she was pleading with the man, "All I ask for is a second chance. I am both physically and mentally capable of handling this job." She lowered her eyes.

She waited, and when he said nothing she refocused her stare back to him, surprised to see him with marker in hand, writing once more. After scrawling a few more words, he placed it down and turned his attention back to her. He let out a huff of air.

"Mikasa Ackerman," he said nearly indifferently, "I don't necessarily like you. You're rash, rigid—you seem so rehearsed. It's like talking to a robot rather than a person." Mikasa opened her mouth to argue her case, but before she could make a sound he held up a hand, stopping her so he could keep talking. "But, I'll do you a favor."

Her eyes widened to some extent. "You will?"

"I will. But," he pushed out his chair and stood, stretching it out as he did so, "like I said, not because I like you. It's only because I hit you with my car." His voice was humorless, but she caught a smirk on his lips nonetheless. "You can start this Friday."

Mikasa nodded and felt her heart pace begin to slow and regulate. He walked around the desk and held out a hand to her, which she took. "Welcome to _ReCON, _Ackerman," he said sternly as he shook her hand, and she allowed herself to smile lightly.

"Thank you," she released his hand and thought for a moment, "sir, I'm sorry, I don't think I ever caught your name."

He rolled his eyes and turned on his heel, towards the door of the office. "Levi," he said plainly, "just call me Levi. Close the door on your way out, okay?" On that note, he walked out, leaving Mikasa alone in the room.

Levi—a short name for a short man, she contemplated comically.

Through the doorway, she watched his back retreat into the gym until he was at a far distance. Then, out of curiosity, she leaned over the desk at the paper he had been focused on through the duration of her interview. She realized she had been correct about him making a list, albeit surprised to see that there were no notes on her personality or competency.

Instead, it was a list of chores—clean the living room, pick up the dry-cleaning, buy more Windex, among others.

Was this guy for real? For her, it had been a nerve-wracking interview, but for him it was simply an opportunity to make a to-do list? She stared at it for a few minutes more, confused, before getting up and leaving.

In her awe at the man—Levi—she forgot to close the door on her way out.

* * *

Mikasa enjoyed peace and quiet; time to herself was golden.

She loved Eren—he was her best friend—but she rarely had alone time. She seemed to always be either coddling him, or working to support him, or doing him a favor and spending time with a group of her mutual friends.

When she had returned home, the apartment had been empty, and a sloppily written note from Eren had been placed on the kitchen counter. _Mikasa, _it read, _first boxing match tonight, I'll be back late. Save me some dinner please, and wish me luck. Eren._ She had immediately crumpled the paper and thrown it away; she wanted to hear nothing more about this moronic boxing bombast. He could make his own dinner.

Still, she appreciated the quiet stillness of the apartment, she reveled in the lack of constant chatter and banter especially after having had such a stressful day.

When she was alone, she didn't do much. Perhaps she would read, or maybe turn on the television if anything good happened to be playing, but more often than not she would just sit on the sofa. She would think, wonder, contemplate.

She thought about her parents—not her biological mother and father, no, those memories were long dissolved. Eren's parents, Carla and Grisha, the Jaegers—they had been kind people, taking her in as a nine year old and providing her with all they could.

She wondered what would become of her and Eren. They were barely scraping by at this point, struggling to pay the rent and running into more and more problems with each passing day.

She contemplated what she would do with herself eventually; of course, it wasn't in the cards for her to go to school right now. But, maybe this new job would be a leg up, the boost she needed to jumpstart the climax of her life. Although he was crass and stubborn, she knew she owed Levi, her employer, her rescuer, for giving her a second chance.

He was odd, but she could look past that for now.

The slamming of the front door of the apartment drew her from her thoughts and she stood up from the couch, yelling in the direction of the foyer, "Eren, is that you? I didn't make you dinner."

Her brother stepped into view, accompanied by another figure whom she didn't immediately recognize; she studied them for a moment before it dawned on her. She cleared her throat awkwardly, tucking a conveniently loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Oh," she muttered, "Jean, I didn't expect you to be coming over."

Jean, who was obviously supporting the weight of a very woozy-looking Eren, smiled abashedly. "It's really nice to see you, Mikasa," he said shyly, before his demeanor stiffened and he glared at the other male, "I wasn't planning on stopping by, until this asshole decided to do a little drinking. He can't even walk straight, I couldn't let him drive."

Eren nearly toppled over, and Jean heaved him upwards. "Sorry if this is inconvenient—me stopping by."

"No," Mikasa said insistently, "no, it's fine, really. I appreciate you getting him home safely." She offered Jean a smile, and he returned a grin. "I thought Eren was at a boxing match," she said, scantly irate, directing the statement more at the boy in question rather than at the other. Jean shrugged the shoulder that wasn't carrying weight.

"A bunch of us were at Annie's place," Mikasa cringed at the name, "and he showed up all excited about something and we kind of just started drinking," he said while Mikasa observed Eren, who she now noticed was giddy and giggling, "and you know how the dumbass acts around alcohol."

"Yeah," Mikasa sighed, wrinkling her nose, "I know. Eren, do you think you can walk to your room?" she addressed her brother, whose head flew up. He stared at her for a moment, seemingly shocked, before breaking out it giggles again and slurring, "Hey, Mikasa." She frowned at him, and his expression mellowed once more.

"Hi," she said briskly, "now can you please try to walk to your room? I'll bring you some water in a few minutes."

Eren shrugged and then nodded, letting go of Jean. He fell down immediately, but pulled himself back up and a few minutes later was stumbling and lolling in the direction of his bedroom, still laughing to himself. Mikasa watched him go and turned back to Jean.

"I really do appreciate you doing that," she said genuinely, reaching into her pocket and pulling out a blue wallet, "I'm sorry he can be such a handful." Jean laughed at her remark, running his hands through his hair and saying, "It's fine, really. At least when he's drunk, we're not trying to beat the shit out of each other."

Mikasa smiled—it was no secret that the two men didn't harbor the nicest feelings for one another. She opened the wallet and fished out a five dollar bill, holding it out to Jean. "I wish I could give you more for your time, but this is all I have on me," when he didn't immediately take it, she stepped closer to him, offering the money, "but I'll definitely get some to you when I make my first paycheck—I just got a new job today and—"

He stopped her from talking when he gently pushed her hand away. "I don't want your money, Mikasa," he sighed, his playful demeanor suddenly gloomy. She cleared her throat. "I could make you something to eat, if you'd like. Eren didn't have dinner, so—"

"No, Mikasa," Jean stressed each syllable, shoving his hands into his pockets and looking at the ground, "you know I don't want any type of payment from you."

She was obstinate. "How can I make it up to you then, Jean?"

He looked up at her, and Mikasa realized he appeared very tired. He took a single step closer to her, and then, tentatively, another before removing one hand from his pocket and placing it uncomfortably on the back of his neck.

"You could start by telling me what went wrong," he mumbled, moving his hand from his neck and towards her, taking a strand of her hair diffidently through his fingers. He played with it, swirling it around his index finger and brushing the pad of his thumb against her cheek. She didn't stop him, but groaned, avoiding his gaze and looking upwards instead.

"Jean," the ceiling wasn't very interesting, but did have damage and needed repair, "I don't want to talk about this again."

"I know you don't, but please, I still don't get it."

"What is it that you don't get?"

"I just…I love you."

"I know you do." His thumb moved from her cheek to her mouth, swiping against her bottom lip, and then her top. She remained still and he repeated the action, moving in circles. After several repetitions, she reached upwards and grabbed his wrist softly, pulling his hand away from her face. She exhaled. "I know you do, Jean."

"Then tell me, what went wrong?"

"It just stopped working, Jean."

"If it's stopped working, it's just broken. I can fix it."

"That's not how it happens." She let go of his wrist and he brought it to the back of her head, running it through the black hairs there; she didn't stop him. Instinctively, she stepped towards him, closing the space between them and letting him to rest his cheek on her head. She listened to him breathe her in, inhaling and exhaling deeply.

She allowed him to take her chin in his index finger and thumb and tilt her head upwards, pausing only a short moment before pressing his lips to hers. She didn't immediately kiss him back, but as he grew more eager she began to compete, drilling his mouth with her own.

It was not romantic, but needy, and when they stopped they were both out of breath and his eyes were heavy.

He rested his head on hers again to continue breathing in her scent. "Mikasa," he whispered, "we should go to your room."

She sighed, resting her hands on his pectorals. "No, Jean," she replied, pushing him away as gently as possible, "you should really go home."

He said nothing but continued to stand there, unmoving. Finally, he asked almost hopefully, "Are you sure about that, Mikasa?" She turned away from him then, and he took a step back from her, thwarted. "Yes, Jean, I'm sure."

In truth, she wasn't sure—she wanted him to stay. But asking him to do so would have been selfish; she felt no love for him.

They stood, motionless, speechless, until she heard him zip up his jacket. Without another word to her, he turned to leave, and over her shoulder, she called, "I really am sorry." His footsteps halted, and he replied caringly and sincerely, "I know, Mikasa. I'm not even angry," before walking again. She heard the front door creak open, and his voice a final time.

"I do love you, Mikasa."

The door closed softly behind him before she could respond.

* * *

When Mikasa entered Eren's room, clutching a glass of water and a bag just in case he got sick, he was still wide awake, sitting straight up.

His eyes were wide, unwavering, She set the glass down on his bedside table sheepishly, before throwing the bag at him. He still stared at her, and she scowled at him. "What is it, Eren?"

"I heard everything!" he blurted out, slurring so horrendously that Mikasa barely understood him. Mikasa ignored the comment, but Eren continued, unable to drunkenly stop himself. "Why didn't 'cha let him stay, Mikasa? You said…you said you didn't like him, but you liked his body! You don't love him but you lust him!" Her face reddened at his words, and she sat on the foot on the bed.

"Be quiet, Eren," she muttered, and then glared at him, "So will you explain to me what you were doing drinking instead of at that boxing match?"

Eren's face lit up and he started laughing. "No, you don't get it! I won the match! So I have to celebrate!" he looked at her eagerly, but she refused to cast a single friendly glance in his direction. "Get me wine, Mikasa!" he urged, "We can celebrate!"

"You already celebrated with Jean and everyone, Eren."

"Oh, right." He stopped talking to rub his head, before slamming his hand down on the bed. "Oh!" he exclaimed, leaning forward where he sat, "Annie was there! It was Annie's house and she's so pretty." He stared dreamily and Mikasa groaned, annoyed. "That's nice, Eren."

"Annie said…I should tell you hello," he smiled widely, "so, hello!"

Mikasa was growing angrier. "That's nice, Eren." She stood and began to trudge towards the door, but her brother called after her. "Wait! Mikasa, where are you going?" She glared at him over her shoulder before flipping his light switch off.

"To bed."

"Oh. Goodnight!"

She slammed the door behind her and hoped he would have a splitting headache the next morning.

* * *

**A/N: **This took forever to get done and it's not even what I was hoping for, I just wasn't feeling writing this week, w/e

To clarify: the to-do list really has no significance other than to show Levi's cleanliness and indifference, Mikasa and Jean dated but she broke up with him when she realized she felt no love for him, only lust, Eren is a lightweight, Mikasa and Annie h8 eachother

Jeankasa won't be in the story really besides this chapter. It's all one-sided.

Hopefully the next chapter will be out sooner, I'm a grumps though

Anyway, kisses to my loves! Thank you for following, reading, favoriting, and reviewing! You rock my socks!


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